


300+ words of smut

by YouWereSoAfraid (non_canonical)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Fluff, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Smut, wine drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-11-28 23:45:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11428749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/YouWereSoAfraid
Summary: A collection of unrelatedHannibalficlets, written for my 300-words-a-day challenge.  Mostly Hannigram smut.  Also fluff.I have no excuse.





	1. Breakfast in bed

The breeze sighs through the half-open window and plays, deliciously cool, across the bare skin of Will’s chest.  The rest of him lies tangled in the sheets, and he really needs to move, to pull on a robe, to head downstairs towards the distant sounds of Hannibal preparing breakfast.  But he’s weighted with a pleasant drowsiness that pulls him down, pulls him under, and he lets his eyes slip shut.  He drifts for a while, but that’s all right.  He’s in no hurry.  Life oozes by here, slow and sweet.  Will knows that it won’t last – hell, he doesn’t want it to – but he can live without the drama for a while.  

He’s happy here in this house, in this bedroom, because it’s their bedroom and their bed – and Will swears that he can still smell Hannibal on the sheets.  Scent triggers memory, and memory fuels desire.  Will drifts between sleep and lazy arousal, a warm glow spreading through his body.  Just the sight of Hannibal now would be enough to make that glow spark and flare, because lately Will has all the self-restraint of a teenager, and he’d be embarrassed about that if Hannibal wasn’t behaving exactly the same.  But Hannibal isn’t here, and as Will’s hand creeps down beneath the sheets, beneath his boxers, he wonders whether it would be rude to make a start without him.

Footsteps; the clink of porcelain and silverware.  The door opens and Hannibal steps in, flourishing a laden tray, and apparently he’s chosen today to bring Will breakfast in bed.

“Tostada, cafe con leche, papaya.  A traditional Cuban breakfast.”  He places the tray on the mattress, and his eyes flick down to where Will’s cock is visibly stirring beneath the sheets.  An expression that Will can only describe as predatory leers onto Hannibal’s face.  “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m always hungry,” Will smirks in response.

“Food first,” Hannibal says, but he leans in and captures Will’s mouth with his own, because he’s just as eager, just as ready for this as Will is – and maybe Hannibal is developing his own powers of empathy, because the two of them are definitely caught in some sort of sexual feedback loop.  Hannibal’s kiss is almost gentle, but there’s an urgency to it that wakes an answering need in Will, and suddenly he wants every inch of Hannibal’s skin against his own, wants to push inside him with his tongue, his fingers, his cock.  The intensity of it leaves him breathless, his body taut even as he melts, desire pooling, hot and liquid, in his groin.  But Hannibal is gently disengaging, and that just isn’t fair, because now that Will’s started he really doesn’t want to stop.

So Will turns his attention to the tray, spearing a slice of papaya, and he makes damn sure that Hannibal is watching as he slips the succulent flesh into his mouth.  The perfumed sweetness hits his tongue, perfectly offset with a citrus zest, and Will yields the little sigh of pleasure with which he rewards Hannibal’s culinary achievements.  Will licks the mess from his lips and he sees the tip of Hannibal’s tongue peek out in response.  It’s an unconscious gesture, but Will treats it like the invitation it is, skewering another piece of fruit with his fork and sliding the dripping morsel between Hannibal’s lips.  Will buries a hand in Hannibal’s hair, then, dragging him closer, and Hannibal’s mouth is hot and lush and juicy.  If this is Cuban cuisine, then Will is all in favour of it.

Will breaks off a piece of the tostada and devours it with obvious, extravagant pleasure.  His hand is slick with melted butter, so he lifts his thumb to his mouth and sucks it inside, slurping it clean, and when he eases it back out it glistens with saliva.  Hannibal captures his hand, pulling it closer and Will smears one finger across his lips, leaving behind a glistening trail of grease.  Then he pushes into the soft, wet heat of Hannibal’s mouth and Hannibal’s tongue, which swirls around him, licking him clean – and if Will was hard before, he’s aching now.

He tears off another warm hunk of buttered bread and dips it into the coffee, Cuban style.  He’s not quite got the knack yet, and a mushy lump splatters onto Hannibal’s stomach before he can hurry it into his mouth.  Wastefulness is as close to a sin as Hannibal will permit in his worldview, so Will wriggles down the mattress and slurps it up, chasing down the last stray remnants with his tongue, licking rivulets of coffee from the hairs on Hannibal’s belly, and he feels the muscles twitch beneath his probing tongue.  And it’s not just the muscles that are twitching: Will teases his fingers across the bulge in Hannibal’s pajamas and he grins up at him.

“I’m still hungry,” Will says, and Hannibal just has time to set the coffee aside before Will wrestles his pajama pants off.

It’s not that Will likes to suck cock: he likes to suck Hannibal’s cock.  He likes the breathy moans that seem to vibrate right through him.  He likes the way that Hannibal’s hands find his shoulders, sometimes the gentlest caresses and sometimes a fierce, clutching demand.  But ‘like’ is too pale, too bloodless, a word for something that’s become such a vital part of him.  Will doesn’t know how he used to live without this; he wonders whether he could do so again – although that’s not going to be an issue, because no one is going to drag them apart, least of all himself, and he’s always been his own worst enemy as well as Hannibal’s.

It rips through him in a sudden wave, the urge to bite, to rend, to tear – to take, to claim, to possess: Will recognises it for what it is, and he takes Hannibal’s cock in deeper, pushing the boundary between too much and not enough.  And Hannibal responds, because Hannibal has always responded to that fierceness in Will, and their hands lock together in a bruising kiss, and when Hannibal comes Will doesn’t just swallow, he licks him clean.

Will finds himself face-to-face with a sweaty, panting cannibal, who’s apparently decided not to eat him, just reaches inside his boxers and takes him into a punishing grip.  And maybe Hannibal has absorbed Will’s mood; maybe they just want the same thing.  Or maybe everything with Hannibal is multiple choice.  It really doesn’t matter, not when Will’s so close, when Hannibal is working him with long, deft strokes, with a little twist as he reaches the head – and Will’s eyes roll back – and as quickly as that, Will’s shuddering against him, and Hannibal kisses him through his release.

The breeze sighs through the half-open window, but it’s drowned by the sound of Will’s laboured breathing, by the ebbing roar of his heart.  The breeze plays across their overheated skin, gluing them together in a sated sprawl of limbs.  Will’s weighted with a pleasant drowsiness, a lethargy that pulls him down to settle against Hannibal’s shoulder.  There are crumbs in the bed, and he’s lying in the wet patch, but that’s all right, because he’s lying there with Hannibal.  Will lets his eyes slip shut, and, in this moment, life is sweet.


	2. Pretty please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of unrelated _Hannibal_ ficlets, written for my 300-words-a-day challenge. Mostly Hannigram smut. Also fluff.
> 
> I have no excuse.

“Hannibal,” Will begs, because he’s achingly hard – beyond hard, beyond aching in fact, and he’s starting to wonder if his balls are actually turning blue – and he’d really like one of them to do something about it.

Will reaches for his cock, and it takes him a moment to work out why his hands won’t move, to remember that they’re tied to the bedpost – and that piece of information seems to have slipped his mind somewhere along the line.  Which is hardly surprising when there’s a lush, wet mouth trailing a line of kisses down his stomach, and Will tugs harder, unable to believe that a silk tie can be this strong.  But it doesn’t yield, any more than the man who tied it, and it figures that Hannibal would be good with restraints.

“Hannibal,” Will says again, and he can hear the whine in his voice, but what the hell.  He lost his dignity some time shortly after he lost his pants.  His fingers clench around nothing, desperate to sink into Hannibal’s hair, to guide him downwards, because this went from a delicious tease to something resembling torture at least five minutes ago – and the reason why he agreed to this is lost in the depths of his lust-addled brain.

“Hannibal, please.”  There, he’s said it, and now – now, surely, please – Hannibal will give him what he wants, because he’s used the magic word.  And Hannibal’s mouth is everywhere, everywhere except where Will really wants it to be, and Will has no idea what more he actually wants to hear – and maybe he said that out loud, because Hannibal pulls away, sitting back on his haunches and lifting his head until Will’s eyes focus on his.

“You have to mean it,” Hannibal smirks, and Will actually groans at that but he’s too far gone to care.  He means it, he really, really means it, and and right now he’d say pretty please with a cherry on top if he thought it would put an end to this torment.  Hell, he’d even let Hannibal put an actual cherry on top, as long as he sucked it off.  As long as he sucked him off.  Will feels delirious, his brain melting in the fever heat of his arousal.

Hannibal’s lips are reddened and swollen, and Will just wants them to wrap around his cock, to engulf him in their tight, sick squeeze.  Because Will knows exactly what Hannibal can do with that mouth, and it’s a crime that he isn’t putting his talents to good use.  Will sheds a tear at the sheer wastefulness of the situation: a single, perfect bead of pre-cum oozing down his aching shaft.  
And finally Hannibal is moving again, shifting lower, and his lips fasten onto the sweat-slick skin of Will’s inner thigh, high enough that he can feel Hannibal’s breath tickling his balls.  Hannibal sucks, sucks hard, and there’s going to be a bruise there later, but that doesn’t matter, not when the pleasure bursts outward from that fierce contact, flaring towards pain, and it’s almost enough to make Will forget about the throbbing insistence of his erection.  Then Hannibal pulls away again, and the absence – of pressure, of heat, of Hannibal – is more than Will can stand.

He twists and bucks against the ties, the need swelling inside him until his muscles tighten and his body tensions like a bow, thrusting the weeping mess of his cock towards Hannibal’s mouth – but Hannibal moves back, still teasing, still testing Will’s limits, and Will’s hips give one last, abortive twitch before he collapses onto the damp sheets.  He swallows painfully around the dryness of his throat.

“Please.”  It’s a needy little sound, more a breath than a word.  But Hannibal hears it, and Hannibal understands – and then Will’s back is arching in pleasure as the hot, sweet relief of Hannibal’s mouth engulfs him.

And if Hannibal doesn’t always give Will what he wants, then he always gives him what he needs.


	3. Radiant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ficlet inspired by, and written in honour of, the [Radiance Anthology](https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/lovecrimecat/radiance-a-fannibal-anthology). Please pledge whatever you can to help make this book a thing of beauty.

Will came to Lithuania expecting to find darkness, but what he finds is light.

The fireflies beckon him into a fairy tale, but the oldest fairy tales were full of blood, and death was visited upon the innocent and the monstrous alike. And these are insects, not fairies, and the enchanted garden into which they lead him is also the lair of the beast. They whirl and rise, a constellation fallen from the skies -- no, their light emerges from the black earth, life escaping from the underworld. Will’s journey is taking him in the opposite direction, down into the dark.

It’s called luciferin, the chemical that makes that glow. From lucifer, the bearer of light, Will’s very own fallen angel tempting him towards the pit. The descent is not without its compensations. The beauty of the fireflies is only visible to those engulfed by the dark. Their lights pulse and flicker, and his imagination catches at them, consuming them, until their fire courses through him, sizzling like lightning through nerves and blood. Something stirs inside Will’s skin, a larva restless inside its cocoon, a creature that isn’t him but at the same time isn’t other.

Later, Will stares at another metamorphosis -- prisoner into free man, killer into victim, living flesh into meat -- and he knows that this progression is incomplete. He works slowly, with infinite care, because the most beautiful of transformations are labours of love. He stares back at himself from shards of glass, a thousand distorted faces, and he scarcely knows himself. But he will. And his new creation strains against the drag of gravity, then overcomes it, leaving the earth behind, ascending, and finally its wings unfurl. 

Will steps back to admire his work. The wings shimmer, but they reflect the darkness as well as the light. And it is radiant.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet was written for [@ghostgurlgamer](https://ghostgurlgamer.tumblr.com/) to celebrate the Radiance Anthology Kickstarter hitting its €44k target.

The light catches Will’s cheekbones, a chiaroscuro smeared with blood. Hannibal wants to sketch the scene in charcoal, to paint it in reds and muted, earthy tones: Will victorious, triumphant, the body at his feet nothing more than a stepping stone on the path of his becoming. Hannibal tries to recreate it in his memory, right down to its final detail, but for once he finds his memory a feeble substitute. He wants this, the real thing -- wants it for as long as he can have it, in every way that he can, in a hundred, a thousand, variations.

Hannibal holds out a hand and Will takes it, letting himself be pulled into Hannibal’s arms. Will’s chest is heaving, his heart racing in time with Hannibal’s own, but it’s not the murder they’ve just committed that’s to blame, and Will’s lips seek Hannibal’s with a demanding pressure. Hannibal’s fingers snake into Will’s hair, twining through the silky strands, and he has the most absurd idea that he would know those curls anywhere, would recognise them blindfolded or blind -- sticky with blood, slick with sweat and plastered to Will’s forehead as they moan together in bed -- and Hannibal’s tongue pushes back against Will’s, urgent and possessive. He wants to take Will, here and now, wants to claim him, to never stop claiming him, until he’s driven away the spectres of abandonment and betrayal.

But Hannibal gently pulls away, evading Will’s kiss. Will sighs, and Hannibal understands the sentiment but he takes a moment to weigh the risks against the rewards. He’s aware that when he’s with Will he doesn’t always have his own best interests at heart. It’s oddly comforting to know that Will mirrors him even in this. But even in his most reckless moments, Hannibal still has the better instinct for self-preservation. They haven’t finished here and Hannibal wants them safely gone as soon as possible. He has no intention of living with only the memory of Will Graham.

Hannibal has never been one to deny himself anything, but sometimes a postponement, a little anticipation, adds to the enjoyment -- in this case it’s more than a little anticipation, and Hannibal catches the flush that keeps on spreading across Will’s face, sees the way Will’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, the way his hand twitches in Hannibal’s direction. And all that Hannibal wants to do is grab Will’s hand and place it over the stirring hardness of his crotch, to pull over on a quiet stretch of road and press Will down into the back seat. But Hannibal needs to exercise caution for both their sakes, so he tightens his hands on the steering wheel and he gives his attention to the traffic. The better he drives, the sooner they’ll be home.

And once they’re home, once they’re safe, Hannibal places the kidneys in the refrigerator -- and that’s the last sensible thing he’s going to do that evening. He’s quick, quicker than Will, and he catches him by surprise, startling a grunt out of him as he pins him to the counter. Will wasn’t expecting this, not here, in Hannibal’s gleaming kitchen. But Hannibal has made sacrifices at the altar of his devotion to Will Graham, has offered up years and pain and blood, and he’s not going to let something as utterly mundane as hygiene get between him and what he wants. Not when the breath comes shuddering out of Will like that as Hannibal kisses his neck.

Hannibal buries a hand in Will’s curls again. This time he tightens his grip and pulls, pulls hard, and Will gasps with the sweet pain of it and bares his throat to Hannibal. Every time Hannibal sees him like this, vulnerable and needy, he’s engulfed by a hot swell of emotion, an ache that’s beyond words, that rises almost unbearably until some untamed corner of Hannibal’s brain whispers, ‘devour, consume’. But Hannibal diverts the current of his thoughts, softens that ferocity into a more tender violence, and he occupies his hands with freeing Will from the confines of his clothing.

He takes Will in his hand, feeling the silky glide of skin across the underlying tissue, plump with blood. It feels so right, like they were made to fit together this way, and suddenly that darker impulse is a fading memory. The angle is terrible, and his wrist won’t thank him for it later, but Hannibal wants to see Will’s face, wants to watch the way his eyes flutter closed, the way his mouth goes slack with pleasure. So he draws things out, slowing down when Will urges him to speed up, easing off when Will wants nothing but a tight grip to drive up into, bringing him to the edge, again and again, and only delivering the coup de grace when Will begs, “Please”. 

Hannibal could paint Will like this, too: pliant and sweaty, panting through the tail end of his orgasm. He would torture his palette trying to capture the precise shade of blue around the dark centres of Will’s eyes. But now it’s Will’s turn to whirl Hannibal around, to fumble with the complexities of zippers and fastenings, to squeeze deliciously -- and Hannibal can’t contain a groan. He’s already hard, already leaking, and Will wastes no time, working him with determination and a fierce grin. Will might lack Hannibal’s theatricality, his practised finesse, but this is what Hannibal loves about him -- one of the things that he loves -- this wholehearted enthusiasm, such a contrast to Hannibal who enjoys the oblique, the long game, the tease. But there are times like these when Will wants what Hannibal wants -- when Hannibal wants what Will wants -- and they haven’t just blurred, they’re hopelessly, irredeemably entangled, an endless feedback loop of desire, and the two of them cry out in unison as Hannibal spills over Will’s hand.

Hannibal smooths the hair back from Will’s forehead, and runs a thumb along the faded ridge of his scar. He offers no apology; he feels no regret. Everything he’s done has led them to this place. Hannibal wants the Will who’s standing in front of him now, and it doesn’t matter that he’s covered in scars and sweat and the faintest tang of blood, because he’s radiant.


	5. Oenophilia

“Spit, don’t swallow,” Hannibal purrs in Will’s ear, smiling the innocent smile that hasn’t fooled Will in a long time now.  “It’s etiquette.”  Then Hannibal is walking away, joining the rest of the group, and all that Will can do is hurry after him and try – really, really try – not to think about the image that Hannibal just planted in his head.

It’s lucky that they’re nearing the end of the tour, that they’re finally about to taste the wine, because Will’s bored and he’s tired of staring at grapes: grapes on the vine, grapes off the vine, grapes disappearing into the guts of any number of machines.  It hasn’t helped that the more specialist terminology is beyond Will’s limited grasp of Spanish.  But there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than on a sunny hillside with views across the valley to the mountains beyond.  And Hannibal is enjoying himself, which is worth a little of Will’s time.  Besides, this is a form of enlightened altruism, and Will can wait until Hannibal has had his fill of terroir and tannins and vacuum distillation, and is ready to demonstrate his gratitude for Will’s patience.

Will brings his wandering attention back to the present, to the guide and the other wine lovers.  It’s a small group, just a handful of couples.  They’re not unfriendly, but they maintain a discreet distance, talking in low voices, well-mannered.  Old money, Will imagines, and Hannibal fits right in.  It’s only his accent that gives him away – well, that and his companion, but Will’s happy enough to stay on the fringes, to slip an occasional arm around Hannibal’s waist and picture exactly what they’re going to do when they get back to their lodge.

And so Will finds himself in a state of anticipation bordering on arousal as he watches Hannibal lift the first glass of wine.  He holds it under his nose and inhales, his eyes slipping shut, the faintest smile softening the line of his mouth – and there it is, that look of utter concentration, of absolute absorption, as Hannibal untangles the complexities of the aroma.  Will lifts his own glass and sucks in a deep breath, and – it’s wine.  Since they set up house in Argentina he’s learnt to tell a Malbec from a Tempranillo, but only by taste, never smell.  He wonders what it’s like for Hannibal, this chemical bouquet, the layers of scent, and Hannibal coaxes those layers apart, opening them up and teasing out their secrets.

Hannibal’s eyes flick open and he’s looking at Will, looking right at him with the same attention that he just lavished on the wine, with the sort of intensity that Will normally associates with a lot more nakedness and a lot less company.  Hannibal’s smile widens, and Will would swear that he can see the pulse quicken in Hannibal’s throat, a rising tide of blood that makes Will’s own heart beat faster, that hardens his desire into something a lot less theoretical.  Will is suddenly, acutely aware that they’re nowhere near as alone as he’d like to be.

And when Hannibal lifts the glass to his lips he does it slowly, knowingly, tilting the glass and tipping back his head, and as Will watches the liquid slip between Hannibal’s lips he finds that his own mouth is beginning to water.  Hannibal swirls the wine inside his mouth, and Will watches his lips purse, his cheeks hollow and then fill, and he knows the sensation of that delicious suction, knows it intimately well, and the memory of it – a dozen different memories, but never, ever enough – sends the blood pumping, hot and urgent, to his groin.  

Hannibal picks up his spittoon and spits out a small stream of red.  His tongue slides out, just the moist pink tip of it, squirming slickly along Hannibal’s top lip, then swiping along the bottom, licking up the last stray drops – as if that were the point of this little demonstration.  Will tears his eyes away, raising his own glass, and he seems to be struggling with his fine motor skills, because he lifts the glass too quickly and the wine floods into his mouth with tart richness, and Will gulps it down before he remembers not to.

“You prefer to swallow,” Hannibal smirks, his hand brushing across Will’s shoulder, and then he’s giving Will’s arm a gentle squeeze.  It could be a simple gesture of friendship, but there’s an intention behind it, an unspoken promise, and Hannibal’s fingers linger a moment too long, and press with a little too much pressure, to be strictly platonic.  As the ache of arousal trembles through him, Will thinks that he ought to be past this stage, this rush of hormones at the slightest touch, because it’s not like this is a novelty any more.  But no one told that to his cock, which is stirring into life – and the other guests are polite, not blind, so Will shifts his Panama hat as casually as he can and holds it strategically in front of his groin.

The guide is calling their attention to the next vintage.  Hannibal is sure, now, that he has Will’s full attention, and he always enjoys playing to an audience.  He swirls the ruby liquid in his glass, sniffing carefully and with deep appreciation, the same way that he inhales Will’s scent: not the expensive aftershave that Will has consented to wear, but the scent of Will himself, sweaty and exhausted, lying with Hannibal’s nose pressed into the crook of his neck.  It ought to be disturbing, to have a man smelling him like that, and it is strange – strange but not unpleasant, because it’s so very typical of Hannibal.  And, besides, Will’s known the man to do far odder things when they’re in bed.

Hannibal takes another sip of wine, and he starts to do that thing with his mouth again, and the obscene little slurping noises send more blood hurrying southwards, making Will’s erection throb insistently.  He wants to touch himself, wants Hannibal to touch him, to stroke him, to slip him into his mouth with the same enthusiasm he’s showing for that wine.  The thought only makes things worse, and despite the coolness of the wine cellar Will’s starting to sweat.  He abandons any attempt to even pretend that he’s tasting the wine, but Hannibal keeps going, moving on to to the next glass.

“A good body and a satisfying finish,” Hannibal remarks, and his smile turns feral.  He’s no longer talking about the wine.  “Muscular,” Hannibal observes, his hand settling on the small of Will’s back.  “Powerful.”  Hannibal’s fingers wander lower, massaging downwards, and the bundle of nerve endings at the base of Will’s spine sizzles into life.  “Perhaps a little aggressive.”  Will is, he won’t deny it, because he likes it and Hannibal likes it too.

Will’s glass thuds onto the table with more force than he intended.  Heads turn in his direction, but he’s the past the point of caring, and, besides, if he stays he’ll end up doing something far more scandalous.  His fingers dig into Hannibal’s arm, and Hannibal just has time to deposit his own glass before Will marches him out of the cellar.

It’s a ten-minute walk back to their lodge: a very long, very awkward, very hard ten minutes, and when they get to their room Will can barely fumble the key into the lock.  Hannibal reaches around him, placing a hand on top of his, but he really isn’t helping, not when he’s leaning into Will like that, when he’s using his weight to press Will up against the door, rubbing his erection against Will’s ass.  If they could afford the risk of being arrested for public indecency, Will would drop his pants and dare Hannibal to take him right here.

The key turns, the door gives beneath their combined weight, and they stumble inside.  Hannibal’s mouth finds Will’s, greedy and demanding, as they shuffle towards the bed.  Will has Hannibal’s shirt unbuttoned, and he’s working on his belt, when the mattress hits the back of his knees and Hannibal takes advantage of his precarious balance and shoves him back onto the bed.  Then Hannibal is on the floor, is on his knees, and Will can live with this so he hoists his hips into the air to let Hannibal yank his pants and boxers down.  Hannibal lowers his head, and the first warm breath on his sensitised flesh sets Will’s cock twitching.

Hannibal wraps his lips around Will, slow and deliberate, licking up the length of Will’s cock as though he wants to taste every inch of him.  But Will’s past the point of slow, of careful, of being teased.  He bucks ever so slightly into Hannibal’s mouth, a silent plea, and Hannibal must be feeling merciful because he moves with purpose, with intent, with the skill that comes from practice and familiarity.  Hannibal knows the way Will likes him to grip and squeeze, the way that Will groans and clutches at the sheets when Hannibal rubs his tongue along the underside of Will’s head, and when Hannibal deploys the gentlest scrape of teeth Will lets out a wordless cry, arching up off the mattress as he spills inside Hannibal’s mouth.

Hannibal sits back on his heels.  He looks up at Will, and his jaw works briefly,, but he doesn’t swallow.  Hannibal’s eyes flutter shut, and Will realises that he’s savouring the flavour, savouring the moment, preserving it inside his memory palace like he’s laying down a vintage for the future.  Will has no idea what it is that Hannibal can taste, whether he can sense the things that Will keeps hidden inside, the things that he isn’t yet ready to say.  But there are forms of communication other than words, and Will tugs Hannibal up to join him on the bed.

“Spit or swallow?” Will asks, but Hannibal does neither: he shares.


	6. First Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gift for [Devereauxs_Disease](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Devereauxs_Disease/pseuds/Devereauxs_Disease).

Will wakes slowly, reluctantly, and finds himself spooned behind a warm shape in the darkness.  A shape that can only be Hannibal, because they were sharing a bed when he fell asleep -- but not like _that_.  Not like this.  Hannibal had been pale and mute after sewing up the damage from Dolarhyde’s bullet, and Will had been a raw mess.  Neither of them had been capable of walking, even after the morphine, and the bed was big enough for both of them.  It all made sense at the time.

Will snorts out a laugh, because nothing about his and Hannibal’s relationship is sensible.  Then he quiets, and lies still, because he doesn’t want to wake Hannibal.  The man needs his sleep.  They both do, so Will relaxes as best he can, given that he’s pressed up against the man, crotch to ass, one arm wrapped around him so that he can feel Hannibal’s chest swelling with deep, even breaths.  The sound, and the gentle rhythmic movement of it, start to lull Will back towards sleep.

His nose is only a couple of inches from Hannibal’s neck, and he remembers the time -- a lifetime ago, now -- when Hannibal leaned in and smelled him.  Will has no idea what it’s like, that whole world of scents and tastes that Hannibal lives in, chemicals triggering receptors, pathways lighting up in that convoluted brain of his.  Will shifts a little closer and inhales, and the reek of iodine hits his nostrils.  Closer still, until his nose is almost touching the skin at the back of Hannibal’s neck, and he can imagine how it would feel, soft and faintly damp.  Will takes a lungful of air, and this time it’s laden with the ripe aroma of sweat.  It’s not unpleasant.  In fact, it’s something of novelty that Hannibal actually smells of something other than expensive aftershave.

Hannibal stirs slightly in Will’s arms, and a sharp, unpleasant noise escapes him -- the sound of pain -- so Will presses a kiss to the nape of Hannibal’s neck and the noise subsides.  Will has no idea why he did that, just knows that he needs to stop, but he can’t stop, and now his lips are brushing across the jutting vertebrae at the base of Hannibal’s neck.  The skin there is just as soft as he imagined, a velvet warmth, and Will’s mouth roams upwards until his nose is buried in Hannibal’s hair, and, shit --

Hannibal’s awake.  He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but Will feels tension tighten in his muscles, feels his breathing comes faster, shallower.  Will flinches back.  He has no idea what to do, what to say, because it’s not like he planned this -- and he knows that’s no excuse.  Now Hannibal is pulling away, pulling free of Will’s grasp, and Will isn’t going to drag him back because whatever happens now it has to be Hannibal’s choice.

Then Hannibal is rolling to face him, and Hannibal’s lips are on his.  And they don’t need to speak, because everything that Will wants to say, everything that he needs to hear, is encompassed in the way their mouths devour each other, the way their hands clutch, dragging each other closer, holding each other tighter, in spite of the pain.  This ought to be strange, because Hannibal’s his friend, his colleague, his enemy -- there’s not even a word for what Hannibal is, for what he is to Will -- and this is all so utterly new, but at the same time it’s absolutely familiar.  It’s comfortable, and comforting, in spite of the need that’s building behind it.

And that’s the only strange thing here: feeling the tug and the ache of desire without the urgency of arousal -- because Will doesn’t have the energy for that right now.  He’s too tired, too sore -- and frankly he’s not sure he has enough blood left in his body -- but that’s all right.  There’s no hurry.  He twines his fingers in Hannibal’s, an unspoken promise.  Hannibal waited three years for him, for them, and Will is going to wait as long as he has to.

“Go back to sleep,” Will murmurs, and he lets his eyes fall shut.  They’ll both be there in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Come and say hi [on Tumblr](https://youweresoafraid.tumblr.com/).


End file.
